


Bring Me a Dream

by Scarlet_Ribbons



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Community: smpc, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Top Jared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 06:05:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18463010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Ribbons/pseuds/Scarlet_Ribbons
Summary: Alone and with only the clothes on his back, Jensen wakes up after a wild night in a stranger's bed.He pieces 'Jay' together using the clues in his apartment.





	Bring Me a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> For SMPC!

The bed Jensen wakes up in is too comfortable to be his own. 

 

(He was a very small boy, growing up. Shrimp, his father would admonish, clapping him hard enough on the back that it would make his knobby bird-knees to buckle. You don't need that much space, do you, shrimp? You can make do with the small bed.) 

 

He's never had so much space before; he spreads his arms and legs wide in a parody of a snowflake, sinking right down into the room-temperature-softened butter of the mattress. Lord, he was _spoiled_ last night. 

 

_Jay bites, and not gently. Jensen's nails knot tight into thick masses of dark hair, drive deep enough until he's searing crescent-shaped nail marks into the nape of Jay's neck. He bares his own like a sacrifice, tongue brutalizing the roof of his mouth when Jay's teeth burn purple-pink bruises into his neck; he can feel them blossoming over his skin._

 

Jensen moves his fingertips back from the territorial garden laying claim to him and sits up. He aches all over, but for once, there's no guilt. The spike of pain needling over his thighs stirs him like a shot of caffeine, bright and bold, and with renewed effort, Jensen manages to get to his feet. He's gross, messy from what he'd done last night but at least coherent. His favorite Led Zeppelin shirt lies in a wrinkled heap on the floor a few feet away. It's his only shirt for now, so he pulls it on over his boxers and gives up on trying to find his pants.

 

Now he has to figure out where the hell he is (and wonder if he can find Jay by matching the pink of the burns over his thighs and ass to his beard, by matching the oval fingerprints tattooed into his hips to Jay's fingertips). 

 

_"How about this. I don't give a fuck about who you are, where you're from, or what your story is. I tell you what to call me, and you tell me what to call you, and then." He shrugs, and there's a hint of Colgate teeth and a pretty, pretty smile. Nine in ten dentists recommend kissing the hot stranger at the bar, going home with him on a whim, and not bothering to figure out enough to excuse the fact that he may or may not be a serial killer... right?_

 

Right. This must be Jay's apartment, and specifically, Jay's bedroom. The room is airy and open, and sunlight scatters through the window in triangular shards over the wood floor. One wall is brick. Jensen's back remembers the brick. So does his ass, incidentally.

 

_He can't help a small, muffled sound of pain when he's pushed unceremoniously into the brick, but it vanishes like the wake of a boat into Jay's mouth. He's on his tiptoes, t-shirt snagging against the coarse bumps in the brick, and one of Jay's hands slides over his hip, sprawls lazily over his spine. Jensen's skin breaks out into goosebumps at the way Jay's fingers strum lethargically over the vulnerable bones, the way a musician would tune up his instrument._

 

There's a guitar propped up against a corner, well-worn and warm from the sunlight from the window opposite to it and next to it is a sheaf of notebook paper, corded together sloppily and scarred with sharp, inky words. Jay's script is all edges, like glass stamped angrily over paper, but the tender lyrics weave together the melancholy of Apollo when he mistakenly slew his lover, Hyacinthus. 

 

Jensen's always found the thought of sleeping with a guitarist who writes his own lyrics to be overwhelmingly trite, but there's an unexpected profoundness in the language of loss in Jay's song; as it is, Jensen's lost so much that he figures he'll cut Jay some slack, at least this time. He places the papers where he'd found them in favor of examining the books on the shelf right beside the bed.

 

_"Leave it," Jay nips at Jensen's earlobe as Jensen moves to pick the book up; in their flurry of motion, it had fallen right off the shelf. Jensen starts to protest out of apologetic embarrassment, but Jay's laying minefield kisses down the expanse of Jensen's back and he just. Forgets. Here's the thing, pain kind of puts him out of it and gets him off at the same time. He's shaking and shivering and falling apart, and Jay's barely even begun. Maybe he's just sensitive now, maybe it's Jay's teeth catching over the notches of his spine, maybe it's the hint of adrenaline and freedom and the having-a-choice thing._

 

Jensen leans over to pick the book that he'd mistakenly neglected the night before, flips through it. It's Kerouac's _Tristessa_ , in Spanish. A bookmark stamped with prints of flowers slips halfway out, and Jensen remembers something- 

 

(Reading is a useless skill, boy. You want to be a shrimp your whole life, you'll sit around like a _pussy_ and read books. It's your mom's fault, naming you something so goddamn girly. That bright thing in your future is shaped like a football, kid, not a book. Don't sit around and let it hit you in the face, go catch it.) 

 

-about Jay, incidentally. He remembers that he'd actually first noticed Jay reading at the bar, his outline blurred into soft light as he'd flipped the page of a beaten-up novel. Jensen remembers scoffing at the sight, because who comes to a bar and reads in the chaos, blocks out the cacophony of nightlife that easily in favor of the story they're engrossed in? 

 

_"You asked if they were distracting," Jay's voice is soft enough that Jensen barely hears him, especially with the way Jensen's pressing his face into the pillow. "The scars. They're not, really." Jensen stiffens at the scrape of Jay's beard against his ass, shock-like tingles scattering over his knuckles and leaving him weak. "I have to admit, I'm not very good at multi-tasking. I immerse myself into whatever I'm doing, so much so that nothing really distracts me." Jensen opens his mouth to respond, but Jay's tongue inside of him has him arching back, pushing into the slick, addictive feeling of being opened up completely._

 

Jensen places Tristessa on the shelf, then abruptly realizes he just might die if he doesn't get to a bathroom soon. Fortunately, there's one not two feet from the bedroom door, and Jensen makes it _just_ in time. More flowers here, dried petals in a colorful potpourri vase and prints of them framed around the medicine cabinet. Jensen doesn't open the cabinet, but he does note that vaguely intoxicating cologne, like bitter, earthy cacao and smoke. 

 

The hallway to the kitchen is only slightly illuminated by the kitchen's natural light. Jensen can already tell that Jay must not be home, because he certainly would have heard Jensen moving around his house. There's a muffin tray on the table, along with another sharp-lettered note with the words, _@ jen, take as many as you'd like. you seemed hungry yesterday_. They're really fucking good; Jensen takes three, because he'd just now remembered the hunger from the night before and how it had nearly swallowed him whole. 

 

(Your mother is a goddamn idiot if she thinks you're getting a crumb of food after your performance today. This is the last time you're seeing that waiter, if I have any say in this. Embarrassing me in front of potential business partners, just to- to make a point that you're sick? No, boy. You turn and face the Lord's sun, and count the strokes as they come. You get hungry and think about what I sacrifice to put food on the table for you. I don't ask for much, but ungratefulness? That won't be tolerated in this household.)

 

Three muffins don't soften the edges of his ribs, but they almost make him a functional human again.

 

_"Being hungry doesn't make a person less deserving of anything," Jay murmurs as he bottoms out, filling Jensen so deep he really does momentarily forget the hunger. He'd drank and eaten what people had bought him at the bar, but there's an absence of hunger and there's being full and they're not the same. This. This is being full, with Jay's fingers twined between Jensen's, with his chest pressed against Jensen's back, with Jensen so acutely aware of Jay's sharp, rushed breaths near his ear. "You don't deserve to starve, Jen."_

 

It's a pride thing, Jensen figures. 

 

He sees the first picture so far; a framed photo on the counter-top of a younger Jay, no facial hair, his arms curled around two people who look rather like him. Siblings, probably, and there's a relaxed slump to Jay's posture, a smile in his eyes. 

 

(You will never be your brother, Jensen. There's no football scholarship in your future, no- no happy ending. You can't even get married, for God's sake. Don't worry, I don't blame you, nobody would do something _this_ stupid just for attention... though I might as well just tell you now. I mean, that I'm not going to give you attention just because you think you want to kiss a boy. I mean, it's disgusting, Jensen. You know that, or you wouldn't have kept it a secret.)

 

There are flowers over the sink, vases on the island with bright, blush-pink roses, tiny terrariums hanging from the ceiling. There's another book face-down and open on the counter (Jensen never thought he would relate to a book at this level); this one is about Greek mythology. Jay must be studying as much, in school or on his own, and Jensen can't help but sink down into the thought. 

 

Jay had saved him last night, one way or another. This mysterious boy, with the long hair in half a bun, with his three-fourths-read books, smoky cacao cologne, and penchant for Greek mythology and flowers had saved Jensen's life. He'd also damn near fucked him into oblivion. 

 

_Jensen's trembling, tiny moans taper off into cries as Jay thrusts into him, his body rising to meet Jay's crashing wave like a surfboard vanishing into the ocean. He's gasping and grappling, and Jay's teeth are trailing over his scars, and he's going to lose it any minute now, any minute now. The tension in his stomach coils up tight, blazing and warm, before he reels out of control. White flickers like paint splatters behind his eyelids as he comes down from the high, his body all but giving way. Jay's breath stutters as he comes, too, and Jensen feels his arms tremble on either side of his head before he's pulled down into deep, blissful unconsciousness._

 

Jensen's so at peace here, in Jay's apartment, so much more than at home. In the home of a man he's only just begun to understand, he feels  _safe_. He feels so safe that he starts to cry, in only the presence of the muffins.

 

(For shit's sake, boy, do I have to tell you everything? Crying makes you weak, and if you're so busy crying that you're not beating the shit out of whoever wronged you, you're not doing a good job. You fight back, boy. Don't just lie there and cry like a sissy, like some girly boy, like that- One of those-)

 

"Jen?"

 

Jensen wipes his face, suddenly acutely aware that he's in a shirt so thin it's all but translucent, and boxers. There's Jay in the doorway leading out to the garden, so tall he all but fills the space. His hair's half-tied back in that same tousled, artful mess, a book eclipsed by his broad palm. He looks every bit as devastatingly beautiful as he had last night.

 

"I didn't mean to startle you," Jay apologizes, taking a hesitant half-step forward. Jensen hears music coming from the garden, low and crooning, some sort of dark, sultry variation of _Mr. Sandman_. "You also seemed like you were sleeping well, so I didn't want to wake you, and anyway, I wake up early to read for school. Did you like the muffins?" 

 

"Yes," Jensen says immediately, moving off the stool in front of the island. "Listen, I- I don't even really know your name-" he starts, urged to continue by Jay's brief, indulgent smile, "but you like. You totally saved my life."

 

"You don't have to," Jay starts, immediately looking a little flustered as he sets the book down, "I mean- I just saw a really pretty boy at the bar and wanted to hook up-"

 

"That's not true," Jensen cuts in, hoping he's not being rude but plowing on anyway. Jay stills, his silhouette illuminated by the light from the garden. "You got to know me by- by giving me a second to _breathe_. You don't-" He stops and swallows choppy breaths, his eyes watering because he's full of- of _emotions_ , claustrophobic emotions. "You don't understand how bad I just needed to forget, for one- one _minute_. I mean, everything's as fucked up as it was before, nothing's _really_ been solved, but you gave me one amazing night and everything felt a little less shitty." 

 

Jay's watching him intently now, so he keeps going before he gets too nervous to say the rest.

 

"You're pretending- probably for my sake -that I was just a pretty face, so I don't- like- feel any _obligation_ to stay, but. But you actually read me so well that you figured out exactly what I needed, didn't you? It's okay-" he taps his fingers against the island counter restlessly, averting his gaze. "-You don't have to say anything."

 

"Jen," Jay says very gently, taking a couple steps toward him. "If you're okay with it, I think... I would like you to stay a little longer. Based on what I saw last night, there's only so much I can- there's only so much I _want_ to ignore."

 

"....Okay," Jensen agrees, and his voice breaks. "You should know that my name is Jensen, then. I'm- I'm a third year, pre-law, and I'm tired of being lonely, so if you don't mind, th- then. Then I'd like to stick around a little longer."

 

"Jensen," Jay echoes, smiling almost knowingly at him. "Well, you should know that my name is Jared, I'm a first year grad student looking at homosexuality in classic Greek mythology, I grow too many plants, and my apartment is _way_ too big for just one person." 

 

Jensen knows there's so much he has yet to tell Jared about the tragedy of his home life, of his eventual escape from the hell his father put him through, of how he wound up at that bar with only the shirt on his back and boxers, but, well...

 

...He figures he has all the time in the world to get there. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading y'all <3 
> 
> Here's that dark version of Mr. Sandman I was looping: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbPsIWto5PY


End file.
